


Mr. Campion's Fortune

by SpaceTimeConundrum



Series: The Werewolf of Bottle Street [2]
Category: Albert Campion - Margery Allingham
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 07:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6745060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceTimeConundrum/pseuds/SpaceTimeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after a witch's curse changed Albert Campion's life, his search for a cure brings him to Hull Fair and a much needed conversation with an old ally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Campion's Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> This follows the events of [_Mr. Campion's Curse_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5044513) pretty directly, so if you haven't read that story yet, please go do so right now.

Mr. Albert Campion strode across the sunlit fairground, a blandly pleasant smile fixed carefully on his face. In deference to the unseasonably warm weather, he’d left his tie behind and loosened his collar. An open waistcoat, tradesmen's boots, and flat wool driving cap completed the image of carefree affability he hoped to project.

Hull Fair was in full swing around him, wandering festival-goers mixing with assorted entertainers and hucksters as they navigated merchant stalls and side show tents arranged in arcane patterns known only to the organizers. Colourful banners and flags waved overhead in the autumn breeze as the sounds of laughter and carnival music from the amusement rides filled the air. The sugary aromas of kettle corn and candy floss combined with the all-pervasive odours of manure, sweat, and tobacco smoke to create an overwhelming blend for his sensitive nose to process as he passed through the crowd.

Making his way past the busy arcade, the lanky young man skirted around a long queue waiting outside one of the many fragrant food stalls and turned down an unmarked alley. He headed for a small ring of caravans situated well off the main thoroughfare, just beyond the temporary stables which had been established to house the various show animals for the duration of the fair. 

A hand-painted sign posted near the entrance to the encampment advertised fortunes told for a reasonable fee, though few members of the general public ever ventured this far behind the scenes. Campion had little interest in having his future foretold. Not knowing what lie ahead made life all the more exciting in his opinion. But Mrs. Sarah was an old friend, and her sage advice was precisely what he had come to Hull to hear.

He hesitated by the signpost, suddenly anxious about his decision to come see her. What would she make of his predicament? Would she be able to do anything for him? 

The fortune-telling business was largely an efficient means of separating romantic fools from their money, a purely mercenary exercise, but Mrs. Sarah had always had an uncanny gift for the practice. Of anyone he knew, she seemed the most likely to be familiar with his condition and what could possibly be done about it. Two months intense research into his affliction on his own had produced nothing of promise thus far. If she couldn't help him, then his prospects of finding a remedy were almost certainly grim.

Historically, the Romani people had long been associated with the occult arts, fearful villagers having accused them of everything from devil worship to causing crop failures and spreading plague. Rumours and outlandish tales still circulated wherever their wagons appeared even now, in this supposedly more enlightened age. Having spent time living among them during a rather unconventional summer holiday years ago, he'd attributed most of these stories to ignorance and superstition. His recent experiences had caused him to re-evaluate much of what he thought he'd known about the existence of magic and the supernatural, however.

Jacob spotted him before he made it past the first wagon, the furious barking of a black-coated retriever which had been sleeping in the dirt beneath the caravan having alerted him to the visitor's presence.

The dark-haired man gave the nervous horses he’d been exercising a reassuring pat and handed the reins to his companion before coming over to greet him. A handful of stray children abandoned their game of quoits to follow him eagerly, curious to see who the pale stranger was.

“Orlando,” Jacob said simply, with a welcoming nod to his old friend. His low voice only just carried over the sound of incessant barking.

“Jacob,” Campion replied, shaking the man’s hand warmly. “Good to see you again." He glanced behind his friend inquiringly. "Is she in?”

Jacob nodded, squinting at the fair haired young man, obviously trying to work out what had changed in the four months since they’d last met. For indeed, something _was_ different about him. It was the lack of spectacles that gave him away, perhaps. Without their dominating presence obscuring his features, Orlando looked much less deceptively innocuous than was usual for him.

Shooing away the gawking children, he led Campion over to the largest of the wagons and ducked his head inside to confer with its occupant for a moment. Their murmured conversation was brief and soon Jacob reemerged to inform him that Mrs. Sarah would see him.

Campion stepped up the wooden ladder and climbed inside the great yellow caravan, settling himself uncomfortably upon a padded bench near the door. The powerful mingled scents of incense and lantern oil made his nose twitch as he sat down. 

Outside, the enraged dog continued to bark until a shouted rebuke from someone silenced it.

Across from him in the dim compartment a large, matronly woman of indeterminate age regarded him silently, her heavily bejeweled fingers laced together on the low table placed between them.

He removed his cap respectfully and clutched at it anxiously in his lap. 

“Oh, Child,” she said finally, deep regret and sympathy in her voice as she looked at him. “How did it happen?”

He started in surprise, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as words suddenly failed him. He hadn’t been expecting her to be _quite_ that perceptive straight-off. 

“There’s no use trying to hide it. Sarah knows,” she continued as he considered his reply. “See the warring spirits in you, plain as day. You've lost your way, haven't you?” 

She leaned forward to pat his hand and he flinched involuntarily, the pure silver in a few of her rings leaving faint red marks on his skin where they’d touched him. Noticing this, she withdrew her hand and frowned apologetically.

"Tell Sarah all about it," she coaxed.

Campion grimaced and bowed his head, watching the burns on the back of his hand fade to nothing as he spoke. “It happened just after I visited you, in July. I made an old woman very cross with me by asking the right questions at the wrong time,” he admitted. “She laid a curse on my head for my troubles and since then, one night in twenty-eight I lose m'self entirely and have to run about on four legs, baying at the moon.”

Mrs. Sarah nodded. “And now you seek answers.”

“I seek a cure. I don’t want this. Halfway between man and beast is no way to live. The wolf is always with me now, full moon or no.” He lifted his chin and met her gaze directly, shadowed eyes hopeful. "The lady who did this to me claims it's irreversible," he said somewhat wretchedly, his tone suggesting that he wanted desperately to believe he'd been lied to.

Mrs. Sarah shook her head sadly, the large gold hoops in her ears clinking softly as she did so. “There’s nothing Sarah can do to change what's been done to you. Some things cannot be undone. You'll drive yourself mad searching for a cure that doesn't exist," she warned.

"Like it or not, this creature is part of who you are now; your blood and bone and sinew are one and the same." She thumped a plump brown fist against his breast for emphasis. "You must learn to share not only your body, but your soul. To try and separate the two would mean your death, my lad."

Campion looked crestfallen and she chuckled fondly. “Not what you’d hoped to hear, I know,” she said. “Take Sarah’s words to heart, Orlando. Make your peace with the wolf and it will become a gift, rather than a burden that you carry. Your path will not always be an easy one, but interesting times await you, my son. Some day this curse may save your life.”

He nodded and permitted himself a resigned sigh. He knew better than to argue with Mrs. Sarah. If she said it was impossible, then she was probably right. It did not make him happy though.

His hostess leaned in again and, seizing him firmly by the shoulders, pulled him forward to kiss him affectionately on the forehead, being mindful not to let any of her jewelry brush against his bare skin. Releasing him from the motherly embrace with a smile, she plucked a fresh flower from the overstuffed vase on the table and slipped it through the buttonhole of his lapel.

“Off with you now,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “You’ll scare the horses if you linger, make more work for my Joey.”

It was just as well that Campion had never been much for riding, as that desperate gallop across the Suffolk countryside in July was likely his last such outing. Most animals could sense what he was now and tended to dislike him for it, he'd learned. His encounter with Bitter Aloes in the stable box had not done much to endear the beasts to him either. 

He stood to leave, tapping his cap against his thigh thoughtfully.

“Thank you for the advice. I shall endeavor to follow it. If ever you should have need of my assistance, Jacob knows how to contact me in London. Goodbye, Mrs. Sarah.” His voice sounded more formal than he’d intended, strained as it was with unexpected emotion. Like as not, he’d never see her again now that his change made it impossible for him to stay with them for any appreciable length of time. The Benwell tribe were primarily horse trainers by trade.

Her dark eyes twinkled kindly at him; she could probably tell what he was thinking. “When you finally decide to marry, bring the girl to see me. Give you my blessing, I will,” she offered, giving him a reason to return someday.

Campion laughed as she knew he would and quit the caravan, stepping back out into the brilliant sunshine. 

Settling his cap on his head, he realised that his heart felt strangely lighter even though he hadn’t found the cure he’d hoped for. Humming a quiet melody under his breath, he waved farewell to Jacob and the others he recognised as he left the encampment and walked back through the crowded fairgrounds toward the Walton Street exit.

On his way out, he collected Lugg from the group of unattended school children the old scoundrel had somehow gathered in Campion's absence, interrupting the card trick demonstration he'd begun as a means of passing the time. The nearby games operator whose audience Lugg had distracted shot him a relieved look as they departed. 

“Did ya get what you was lookin' for then?” the ex-burglar enquired gruffly as they headed back to the car.

“Not exactly,” his employer replied vaguely, “but perhaps it was something I needed to hear.”


End file.
